


Yesterday and Today, Come Tomorrow

by orphan_account



Series: The Words You Say, the Way You Say Them [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last night was all action, all John, and now they're both hanging on hesitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday and Today, Come Tomorrow

Sherlock wakes up feeling the way he does just before he solves a case, when he knows he's going to spin out the whole saga in five fast sentences but he's not yet certain of the whole story. He has a lot of confusing words on his tongue and he mouths them with dry lips in the dusty dawn of John's bedroom. His breath whispers out— _asexual,_ _sociopathic_ ,  _uncaring_ ,  _genius_ ,  _freak_ —ways of classifying himself and ways that other people classify him, put him into boxes. There are other words, too, John's words— _brilliant_ ,  _fantastic_ —good words, but they still don't sit well with Sherlock.

He struggles to lie still and breathe evenly so that he doesn't wake the man whose mouth is pressed to his collarbone and right leg is stuck beneath his ankle. Sherlock had awoken ages ago to John's sleeping fingers lacing through his hair, tight enough to hurt. He had considered rolling over so John would fall on the bed and he could make his escape, but he could feel the other man all down his body and Sherlock is too interested in the nearness of John to risk abandoning this singular opportunity to know him.

The problem is that he's lying in John's bed with John's sleeping skin on him and so he can't stop his mind from thinking about the last few days. Considering the murder on yesterday's news only distracts him for a moment, and then he is back to thinking about last night, about the day before, about right now—and he cannot make sense of it.

He had been through it all so many times. He was doing an experiment with a scalpel and then—and he was so  _weak_ —something had fallen in Mrs Hudson's flat and it sounded a bit like an explosion and suddenly his eyes were full of Moriarty and his hand was full of blood. He had stepped into the shower because he hadn't wanted John to see him and then all he could think of was the smell of chlorine and the sound of Moriarty's voice over the lap of the pool and the sudden frisson of a mobile phone and he had frozen while his skin burnt under the jet of the shower. He had forgotten about John coming home and the blood turning the water red and what the doctor would think when he found him there.

And of course the doctor had ignored the closed door, had been all concerned and worried and caring. Sherlock was used to John wanting him to be all right but that didn't mean he understood John's feelings, and the way John looked at him, like  _he_  was hurting at the sight of Sherlock's blood, made Sherlock's brain short-circuit. John felt affection for him and Sherlock felt something for John, enough for John that he knew that he didn't want to make John hurt so his face went wrinkly and his eyes dark and his lips thin. Sherlock knew he didn't like when John made that face so he had said he was fine and he had been—it was just a little blood—but John set stitches in his hand and kept looking at him like that and when he got upstairs Sherlock heard him hit something, and  _obviously_  he was unhappy and that was on Sherlock.

And then Sherlock had given him a case and he hadn't even seemed happy about it, not really, and Sherlock had tried to  _talk_  to him—and Sherlock doesn't do that, he just doesn't—and John wouldn't explain himself and why were emotions like this?

And then—and here Sherlock's brain is full like a school of fish crammed into a fishbowl—and then he found John in the shower and he just meant to tell him  _I care but I don't know how to_ , that's all he wanted to say, and then John kissed him and suddenly Sherlock didn't fit in all his boxes and his body was not just a vehicle and he was certainly not married to his work and all he wanted was John. And John's lips and mouth took him apart in a neat and disastrous way. John had pulled him beneath his covers and now here they are, still touching in as many places as they can, and John is exhaling on and inhaling from Sherlock's shoulder and he's drooled a little there and Sherlock is not disgusted by this, by the functions of John's body, and more surprisingly he's not disgusted by the sudden irrevocable release of his own body, and he doesn't know how to think anymore.

He has always thought in straight lines. To everyone else, of course, the lines aren't straight. They are wild jumps of deduction and it is sheer luck that he always ( _usually_ ) lands on his feet. But in Sherlock's head most things are clear—a man's tan was from time spent under the sun and the tan lines indicated a uniform and he had a military bearing and therefore  _Afghanistan or Iraq_?—it is a straight path from one to the other because the one had come from the other, simple.

But here, this, today and yesterday and the day before, evade straight lines. Oh, Sherlock could draw one. He hurts himself, meaning John's upset, meaning John can't sleep, meaning Sherlock finds John in the shower at night, meaning Sherlock feels bad, meaning Sherlock tries to offer comfort the way John had offered comfort the day before, meaning John gives him oral sex.  _Oh, hello, Sherlock, you're here. Let me put your penis in my mouth_ —how ridiculous, how absurd, people do not think like that. That was the problem; that whole thing had not been premeditated, not on Sherlock's end and not on John's, and so Sherlock lies beneath John and does not move because he does not know what he is supposed to do.

Is he meant to leave? Are they going to pretend it hasn't happened? How do they go from John breathing Sherlock's skin to being separate people again?

His limbs are tingling where John's body presses and he can barely feel his legs by the time John's breathing finally changes. The other man's eyes move behind his eyelids as he orients himself and then his lips shut and he lifts himself off of Sherlock, his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of Sherlock's shoulders before he rolls off of him, onto the bed with a solid two inches of space between Sherlock's left hand and his right one.

They lie silent on their backs, staring at the ceiling, and Sherlock's mind is going over everything again, over the flush of John's skin in the shower and the timbre of his voice when he said Sherlock's name and the way his teeth felt on Sherlock's shoulder—does Sherlock have a bruise there? They can't ignore it if there is physical evidence, can they? Or does the concentrated obliviousness of normal people extend that far? John's not that ordinary, though.

John sighs. Sherlock inhales. They alternate breaths for a few minutes and then John finally speaks. He says, "I told you it wouldn't solve anything."

Sherlock remembers. "You also said it might be necessary." He wonders at that, that something so unplanned could actually be essential. "Was it?"

"That depends." John's voice makes Sherlock's stomach swoop up into his throat and jag down to somewhere around his feet and his emotions don't suit science well.

Sherlock coughs and manages, "On what?"

The words are a pause between John's sighs: "What do we do today?"

This is an innocuous question with a heavy answer, Sherlock knows that much. And John's waiting on him. Last night was all action, all John, and now they're both hanging on hesitation.

Sherlock lifts his hands and presses them together in front of his face. He suppresses a wince—the cut John had sewn up two days before must have swollen beneath the ruined mess of gauze—and tries to think. But his mind is still a disaster zone and now he must analyse the space between himself and John and decide what that means and there is no time to communicate all of the confusion inside his head.

So he stays silent and parses empty space while John's breathing becomes louder. And then John says, "Let's just get up and get breakfast. I'll go to work and you'll bother Lestrade or Mycroft. Everything will be normal."

John sits up, the sheet still hooked around his waist. But Sherlock doesn't think that's right. "No." He reaches out his left hand and wraps it around John's wrist. John's pulse is rapid and he tries to pull his hand away, but Sherlock won't let go. "No," he repeats. "That's not what I want."

John's pulse feels like it will rip right out of his wrist and into Sherlock's fingertips. "What do you want then, Sherlock? I'm no good at guessing games."

"You're fine for a normal person," Sherlock says.

"Yes, okay, great, thanks. But you didn't answer my question."

Sherlock counts to ten but his thoughts still won't turn linear. "I don't know."

"Oh." John slowly takes Sherlock's hand and unclasps the detective's fingers from his wrist. "Well, I'm hungry, so I'm going to go get breakfast. I'll let you think."

"John?" John is almost at the door, wearing only a pair of pants he's snagged from the floor, and he glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, one corner of his mouth slightly up.

"Yeah?"

"What do  _you_  want?"

John blinks—surprised, it's surprising to him that Sherlock would care about what he's thinking, possibly that he would even think to ask, possibly that he even  _had_  to ask. Probably all of those. If Sherlock were an entry in a dictionary,  _selfish_ would be listed under its synonyms.

"I guess," John hesitates, and then tilts his head and smiles a little sheepishly, a little bravely, too widely, "I guess I want your respect."

John is out the door before the words work their way fully through Sherlock's tangle of thoughts. Obviously John has Sherlock's respect. Shouldn't he be aware, by now, that Sherlock respects him more than nearly anyone else?

The more important question, Sherlock supposes, is what he had wanted John to say. Had he wanted John to say that he wants everything to stay the same, or that he wants to start sleeping with Sherlock regularly, or that he just wants Sherlock—whatever the detective is willing to give him? None of those sound right to Sherlock. Everything had been fine—a little strained, sometimes, but overall okay—and then he had to go and harm himself and worry John and kiss John and want John and  _fuck_ , John.

He sighs and sits up, rubbing his left hand through his messy hair and wrinkling his nose at the gauze on his right hand. Sherlock carefully unpeels the once-white fabric from his palm to find that the skin is swollen and shiny around the black stitches. He considers rewrapping his hand and ignoring it, but then John is back in the doorway, holding a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and he sees the way Sherlock is examining his palm, pressing against the skin so it throbs in patterns of Morse code—long-short-long.

"Shit." John sets the toast and tea on the desk. He takes Sherlock's hand and shakes his head. "It's infected. I should have looked after this last night. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock says, and John's fingers press a little harder for a second, before he pulls his kit from the bedside table.

"Do me a favour." John removes antiseptic and a tiny pair of scissors and sutures and gauze from the kit and sets them in a row on the sheet beside Sherlock.

Sherlock nods as John begins snipping at the black strings that were supposed to hold his skin together. "Never say the word 'fine' again. Particularly in regards to yourself. You are never fine, Sherlock."

He's about to argue that point, because honestly he's fine some of the time, when he's not bored, and besides, who is John to tell him that he isn't, but John looks sad and so he nods and says, "All right."

"You can be good, though," John admits. "At the moment, however, your hand is not good." He sets to work with antiseptic and gauze, and by the time he's finished Sherlock feels as if he's just cut himself six or seven more times, without the added benefit of having blood to examine.

"You have to go to the surgery?" Sherlock asks.

"Technically I should. I have paperwork I need to finish." John closes the lid of his kit and puts it away. "Why?"

"No reason," Sherlock says, although he had been considering lying back on the bed and pulling John back on top of him and learning how all the pieces of his flatmate come together. Dissection has taught him that muscles and joints and tendons are different in fascinating ways and Sherlock's certain that John's differences will completely consume him for at least a day—and this addiction may be better for his mind than nicotine and cocaine.

"Are you sure?" John looks at him for a long moment and Sherlock nods. "Okay. I should get ready, then. But Sherlock," John inhales and his ribcage expands and his back straightens and bodies are glorious and John's body is even more wonderful than most people's, "we do need to talk tonight. Do your thinking today. Please."

Sherlock nods again. John grabs some clothes from the wardrobe and leaves Sherlock sitting on his bed, a sheet over his lap and a cold cup of tea and plate of toast on the desk.

He is downstairs and dressed by the time John comes out of the bathroom with his face freshly shaved. Sherlock wishes he could keep John here for days and watch as hair—a bit darker than the dishwater colour on his head—peeks from his chin and neck and upper-lip, until John's face is furry and then maybe he'd allow Sherlock to shave him, to see how he becomes familiar again, and Sherlock just thinks it would be nice to watch John change and it would be even nicer to be the one to bring him back.

"All right?" John asks. His shoulders are still tense and his question sounds forced and Sherlock knows that he wants something—answers, probably, maybe even some sort of physical contact—but he cannot give him those quite yet, so he just nods. John grabs his coat and reaches the door. "I'll see you tonight."

Sherlock says, just as John's about to shut the door, "I do respect you." The words sound small in the flat but John freezes at the door for three seconds and then he closes it softly behind him and Sherlock is alone.

Sherlock sits on the sofa and leans his elbows on his knees and examines his gauze-covered hand for exactly one minute before resuming his thinking position and closing his eyes and focusing on John.

It is not difficult to focus on John when John is there. Sometimes when John is there he is all Sherlock sees. Not all Sherlock notices, of course, that would be remiss, but he can catalogue everything in a room without moving much of his attention from John. But now, when John isn't here, everything in the empty room is pressing in on Sherlock and he is thinking about where the towels fell last night and whether there's evidence in the shower and whether the skull is still on the mantelpiece or if Mrs Hudson has moved it and if his cigarettes are somewhere—they must be—and John isn't there, he isn't at the centre of these thoughts and Sherlock needs to direct his attention to the doctor's absence.

Sherlock sighs. John's not-there-ness sticks in his mind like a stone or a fist in his gut; it's a bit like the cut on his hand or the times he's twisted his ankle—it doesn't affect him, not his ability nor his mind but when he thinks about it it feels wrong, a bit off, like he's walked into a room and everything is one centimetre to the left of where it had been. That's what he feels like when he thinks about John not being there—off balance.

Sherlock wants John to stay. He opens his eyes and examines the floor in front of him. There's dirt from his shoe by the coffee table. The fact that he wants John to stay is not surprising. It's not new information. Even John—he should stop thinking like that, that doesn't demonstrate respect— _John_  wouldn't be surprised by it. Sherlock closes his eyes again. He needs something else.

He thinks about the night before. He wouldn't mind feeling John's mouth on his again. He wouldn't mind touching John again. But does he  _want_  to? He parts his lips and exhales. "Do I want to shag John Watson?" he asks the empty flat. His lips twist at the baseness of it all. He might love the man—love as much as Sherlock can love—but does he want everything that people seem to think love entails? Does he want more from John than he's already had?

He digs the heels of his hands against his eyes. Why must this be so complicated? Couldn't they keep going the way they had and if they happened to fall on each other again then good, and if they didn't, then John could keep dating his incessant line of women and Sherlock could keep to his work and nothing would change.

Nothing would change except this morning he had wanted to keep John with him in bed and he had wanted to taste the base of John's spine and to feel the twist of hair on his neck and examine the way his pupils dilated for Sherlock and all of that is different. And so he must want John, and want him differently than he had the day before.

John comes home sooner than Sherlock expects, and he anxiously shoves the mould experiment he had been working on into the breadbox and washes his good hand in hot water and lingers by the kitchen table while John shrugs off his coat and toes off his shoes and waits a few silent seconds before saying, "Hey," and coming into the kitchen.

He fills the kettle with water and plugs it in and Sherlock wonders whether John has decided to forget rather than talk to him and then he turns to face Sherlock and his face is determined and he asks, "So?" like a challenge.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something coherent and meaning  _yes_ , but then he says, "You bruised me," and John blinks, takes a step back so he's leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

"Yes, I did."

Sherlock lowers his eyes and looks at his bare feet on the linoleum floor. "I think," he says, "I think I liked it."

"You certainly seemed to." John's lips are twisted in a smirk and Sherlock can't look at him. "When I left this morning, you told me you respected me. Did you mean that?"

"Obviously," and Sherlock's voice has an edge to it. "I don't tell you things I don't mean."

John laughs. "You do all the time."

Sherlock raises his eyes and glares at him. "I don't want things to change except I want to keep touching you and how does this work? How can this possibly work, John?"

John's face is red. He's so endearingly human sometimes. "It might be difficult," John admits. "I mean, you tend to make things difficult."

Sherlock scowls. "You're not always easy, either."

"I know, I know. We're both capable of being messy. But Sherlock, if you really want this, me, whatever, we..." he trailed off, shrugged, started again, "we can probably manage it. You're you, and I..."

"You're John Watson. You killed a man to save my life and you have moveable parts."

"I have  _what_?"

Sherlock crosses the kitchen and takes John's wrists in his. He lifts the man's hands and presses the palms against his cheeks. John's fingers follow along the sharp angles of his face and his fingertips trace gently against the edges of Sherlock's eyebrows and his pinkies dig a little into Sherlock's ears and his hands are moving under Sherlock's. "You have moveable parts," Sherlock repeats. "You're always searching when you're touching me."

John steps closer and stands on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock and his lips move and so does his tongue and it's like he's turning his body into Sherlock's or turning Sherlock's into his and wouldn't it be nice if they were exchangeable, if he could become a little bit of John and John could become a little bit of him.

"You're all right, Sherlock. You're good," John tells him when his lips slip away. Sherlock drops his head to his flatmate's shoulder and his hands to John's waist and he wonders how each centimetre of John's skin would react to his mouth and then he realises that he can find out. He has John to know and he does not believe that the humanness of this will ruin him because it hasn't ruined John. Maybe his mind is more intricate than the other man's, but Sherlock's thinking linearly again, and the lines all connect in John.

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M because of that one line; I didn't think smut fit very well in this.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
